I long for many things, outings, encounters, verticality, clever hands, travel to foreign lands, and – inflecting all – the ability to amble, move about without aim, make discoveries. During one of my tottering pre-dawn garden walks my bedroom window beckoned with its warm yellow glow. I peered inside, almost with surprise, and certainly pleasure, reviewed the crumpled pile of bright red bedding, the cramped book-shelves sprinkled with art, and five hairy maidens cavorting on the wall. I have (but don’t own) a home!
I am sleeping (and not rough), can reach the furthest corners of my flat, and, occasionally even after sunrise, the garden, where a potted magnolia throws flowers forth from furry buds which should spring anima, little souls, waiting to curl and clamour in one’s hand before ramming tiny, sharply chiseled teeth into the softest bit at the root of one’s thumb.
My activities tend towards the microscopic. Wishing doesn’t. It pains me to admit it, but there are times when pathos rules. One day, almost delirious with fatigue, I had a vision of myself as a cheerless figure on Oxford Street bearing a poster on a stick: READ ME. Allow me to redress: let me walk on a beach, sans placard, of course, or sit in animated conversation at Le Café de Flore, Paris, sharing croissants and café noir. Still: Ici s’agitent des ombres (pardon my French). Je les salue.